


A Modern Martyr

by Mimca



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Hanging, One Shot, Spoiler Character - Freeform, Spoilers up to S12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 14:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimca/pseuds/Mimca
Summary: Executions were but a necessary evil, to rid the country of criminals far beyond redemption, to make a statement to the waywards; he had known that risk, and yet that did not stop him from doing the unforgivable. So why did William feel so conflicted about it?William Murdoch is a witness to the hanging of one of his men.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	A Modern Martyr

The execution had been scheduled at eleven.  
  
To William Murdoch, executions were but a necessary evil, to rid the country of criminals far beyond redemption, to make a statement to the waywards; he saw no point in making a spectacle out of it. And when the capital punishment fell out of fashion, relegating the gallows to some dusty closet in a prison of Kingston only made it much easier to forget: the State, by its imperfect law, was given the power to take a life.  
  
The only execution he had wished to witness was James Gillies’; and James Gillies was, had been, a special kind of evil. Julia and he would have found no peace had they not seen with their own eyes the devil exorcized, still at the end of the rope. Even then, though he did not tell her, some nights he would wake up in a cold sweat, dreading his perverse Word might have spread to some vulnerable soul, biding their time.  
  
This time, Julia had refused to come. _I understand your position_, she had said, helping him dress in his Charleston black suit–which was, _mind you_, very different from his usual black. _But I just can’t support it_. Her sparing words spoke a thousand: he would be coming back home to a cold shoulder, and a vacant spot on the couch.  
  
William suspected she blamed herself. Unfairly, of course. He had known the risk, known doctor Ogden would notice the discrepancies in his testimony. He had known the law did not care about motives. That did not stop him from doing the unforgivable.  
  
Another minute. William watched the slow pendulum of the noose, the blinding sun weeping through the window behind.  
  
The local wardens had set a square of chairs for the invited–though not many people remained to be invited, for the front row remained ghastly empty. Himself excluded, there was the victim’s father, one spot away from where Julia should have sat. It was hard to know for whom he shed those tears, but William did not vilify him; the man was wrecked enough, in another Charleston made for his son to wear one day, shoulders too broad, too empty.  
  
Behind his shoulder, Louise Cherry caught him peering. She nodded a silent acknowledgement. He nodded back, mentally preparing himself for her less-than-delicate questions; answering to journalists, as headache-inducing as was the exercise, was an inevitable part of the judicial play. _William Murdoch_, she would say, her pen on the paper with the ferocity of a wasp’s sting. _A word for the Toronto Telegraph, please. How do you feel about the execution of one of your own men?_  
  
Because that was one of his men who was to be executed. A man who he had invited into his first house. A man who had shared his first intoxication. A man who had held his best friend’s entrails. An honest man through and through; a nature which was the cause of William’s inner turmoil.  
  
He could not understand how someone as fundamentally good as Watts could have been driven to murder.  
  
_“You didn’t have to kill Mr. Baker,” William spoke aloud, as he tried to find the logical link he _must_ have had missed. “He would’ve been found guilty of Mr. Marks’ murder.”_  
  
_“Do you mean it? Of course you mean it,” Watts answered himself over his agape mouth. “You believe our judicial system would’ve put Baker away. But it failed before. Remember Mr. Shanley?”_  
  
_William raised an eyebrow. Why would Watts bring up their first case all of a sudden?_  
  
_“Mr. Shanley found a scientist ready to re-examine his case. He found out that, if he could make the jury question the initial test on the key evidence, he would be freed.”_  
  
_“He exploited a vice,” the senior detective recalled. “He was still a murderer, as we proved.”_  
  
_“Indeed,” Watts admitted, a knowing smile drawn on his lips. “But back then, facts were against you, too. And because he’d been freed, Mr. Ramsay lost his life. Though not by Mr. Shanley’s hand, directly.”_  
  
_“Where are you going with that?” But William started to put the pieces together, and he must have seen it in his features, leaning across the table, closing the distance between them. His elbows hit the surface with intent, echoing the senior detective’s own previous outburst._  
  
_“Everyone knew what Nigel had done. But when his father asked the evidence to be re-examined, and when he proved it’d been manufactured, he was released. And because of that…” And even Watts could not hide the tremor creeping in his voice. “Because of that, Hubert died. Hubert died at the hands of the same man that killed Danny.”_  
  
_“So,” William pursued, “you took the matter in your own hands.”_  
  
_His eyes fell, to the pictures splayed on the table. William had seen his share of murders during his career, but the random violence of what had happened to Marks, may he be in His presence… He could only find some comfort believing the man had been too feeble of mind to understand._  
  
_“That was easy. I had Hubert’s gun. And when I confronted Nigel… He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even recognize me. I’d no reason to hesitate.” William did not consider he was lying. A full lie seemed impossible to the younger detective, to a pathological level. “Isn’t that what you wanted to hear all along?”_  
  
_“No,” William whispered. Then, louder, as the confession sunk in: “_God_, no.”_  
  
_He threw his head upwards, breathing out._  
  
_He should have stuck to the initial testimony: detective Watts killed Nigel Baker in self-defence, during a scuffle involving the latter’s own weapon. The State would have been satisfied with that; no one but the inadequate father would have cared to dig up the background of another once-convicted drunkard who plagued West End. But he had cared. And that was where his investigations led him to: he was to send to the gallows a man he remembered as–_  
  
_“Why didn’t you say it?”_  
  
_“What?”_  
  
_“You…” William swallowed. The word to Watts felt foreign to his tongue. “You _killed_ Mr. Baker, yes, but you’ve got mitigating circumstances. We could’ve _understood_ that, Watts!”_  
  
_Watts blinked once. Twice. Then the corners of his eyes rumpled in unexercised sympathy. “But that wouldn’t change a thing. You’d still have to arrest me. You can’t start thinking about people’s motives, otherwise–” He leaned against the back of his chair, one arm embracing the multitude of ghosts in the ceiling. “What’s the difference between me and another man? And who decides whether this man’s cause is just or not?”_  
  
_William opened his mouth but was left without an answer. He was right. In spite of their widely different educations, or lack thereof, there was some innate spirituality in Watts he found hard to disagree with. Justice was blind; that was the key principle all agents of the law were held to. He had only once strayed from it–and that was because he considered himself, in a way, the unwitting engineer behind Gardiner._  
  
_The younger detective was no exception._  
  
_He stood up from his chair. One hand on the table for support, his body felt incredibly heavy. “… I’m sorry you thought you had to do that.”_  
  
Five minutes before the actual execution, John Radclive, the hangman, was the first to walk forward; with ashen hair and calluses on his hands, the craft of death had prematurely aged his body. William did not need much deductive reasoning to guess the man spent his nights drowning the memory in long straight shots at the local pub until there was no gold left in the dispensers or his pocket, or until his kidneys could no longer sustain the self-destructive habit–the latter being the more likely outcome. He gave him a few years, at best.  
  
Watts appeared right behind. Besides the shadow a full beard and unkempt creases in his shirt, he seemed just like himself. As he uncoiled his shoulders, measuring the height of the noose, William noticed how tall he really was. Another thought followed, plain and chilling:  
  
_The rope’s too short._  
  
Radclive, with a motion mastered over the years, crossed his ankles and wrists together. Criminals in the same spot before also had to play their part; thrash against the leather belt, claim to the higher power of their choosing the good they would do if released, call their mother and curse them for failing to raise them. Watts did none of that, however, and the bounds seemed a useless precaution. He decided to be a contrarian until the end; what little control he had over his final moments, he took it.  
  
Three minutes before eleven. The hangman backed away one step. The cavernous clearing of his throat echoed in the deafening silence. “Llewelyn Watts, you’ll be now hanged by the neck until you’re dead and thereafter your body buried within the precincts of the prison. Do you have any last words?”  
  
Watts scanned the crowd wordlessly. His eyes fell on William, and the corners of his lips moved. “I don’t.”

In the face of death, Watts remained true to his own conception of justice; a modern martyr, in every aspect. Radclive nodded as if he had said anything of any importance. “May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”  
  
One minute before eleven. As he pulled the black cap over his face, Watts’ body arched. A true pragmatic, William supposed it was a natural reaction facing sudden blindness; nonetheless, he felt a pang of pity. The fallen detective’s silhouette seemed to blink in and out of existence.  
  
He kept his mind on the clock, to keep himself from indulging in debasing emotions. He was only human, after all–and separating the human from the law entirely was an impossible feat.  
  
Eleven sharp.  
  
_Too soon._  
  
William stood right as the trapdoor fell.

**Author's Note:**

> Some sources say John Radclive worked as one of Canada's professional hangman until 1899, others say he worked until his death from cirrhosis in 1911, in Toronto. I went with the latter sources.
> 
> Happy (belated) Halloween!


End file.
